


Weather the Storm

by CoffeeAndDreams



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Protective James Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24139783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndDreams/pseuds/CoffeeAndDreams
Summary: Bond witnesses Q try (and fail) to fight back a panic attack, then helps him ride it out. Written as Gen, but could be slash-y if you squint.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 64





	Weather the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> My anxiety has been tough to manage lately (thanks world) and I'm dealing with my nerves by writing. I have no idea why it helps me process, but it does. If reading about panic attacks is triggering, probably skip this story.

Q hated Murphey’s Law…really, really hated it. His day-to-day pace was always intense, but the last few weeks had been particularly challenging: meetings, failed experiments, missions going pear-shaped when they absolutely shouldn’t. It was wearing on him and his nerves were frayed. He was running late for a mission debrief with 007 and Q was hoping the agent would be fashionably late so he could have a few minutes to sit quietly and clear his head.

“Was beginning to think you stood me up,” came a voice to his right. 007 startled him and Q’s reaction was disproportionate and very unlike the collected person he wanted everyone to believe he was: a sharp intake of breath and flinch away from the unexpected noise. His overeager fight or flight response snapping to attention. Bond’s smirk faded at Q’s reaction. The Quartermaster was notoriously difficult to surprise or rattle and getting one over on him hadn’t been the triumph Bond had been expecting. “Sorry, Q—didn’t mean to startle you like that.”

“It’s nothing.” Q paused to swipe his keycard and enter his office. “Please tell me you’ve brought back an intact kit and all’s forgiven.” Bond followed and let the door shut behind him. Something felt off to him.

“More or less,” he said. Q leveled him with a glare.

“Which is it—more or less?”

The smirk he got in return told him everything he needed to know, and Q sighed; he was beginning to feel a tension headache forming. Q pulled a chair over and put it next to his desk, the message clear. Bond sat down and casually crossed one leg over the other. He watched Q open a file on his computer, briefly close his eyes, and take a deep breath. James frowned: his Quartermaster was anxious. 

Q took his cardigan off and draped it over the back of his chair. Even though his office was kept cool because of the servers, he was feeling overheated. Overheated and shaky. And anxious. The last rational thought Q had was that this was something out of one of his nightmares. He began typing in answers for the lost asset report (honestly, 007 lost more guns than was humanly possible) when his hands started trembling. It wasn’t particularly noticeable, but it caused him to make a huge numbers of typos as his fingers flitted from one key to the next. He huffed in frustration and pulled his hands back from the keyboard and clenched his fingers into fists for a few seconds before shaking them out again. He didn’t expect Bond to overlook it.

“Hand cramp? A little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Well, if a certain agent didn’t require me to fill out so many forms, maybe my hands would be in better shape,” Q said. His voice was a little breathless and he was sure the agent noticed. “Keep going,” he prompted. “Let’s get this done.”

Bond’s eyes narrowed slightly as he took in his Quartermaster’s body language.

“We could finish later if you—”

“I just want it done,” Q snapped.

A heavy silence hung between them. Q blushed under the intense scrutiny of those fierce blue eyes, eyes that he knew had been cataloguing every slip in his behavior since surprising him in the hall. Bond was partly relieved that Q didn’t take the out—at least he’d be there where Q finally cracked. Bond nodded once and answered the next question on the list. Q began typing, but what had started as a tremble, had now accelerated to full-on shaking. Q could feel his heartrate picking up and his chest was beginning to tighten. He was tipping towards a full-fledged panic attack. Q closed his eyes for a moment and tried to visualize pulling air into his diaphragm, but it got stuck below his throat and he coughed painfully.

“Is it getting worse?” Bond asked, sliding his chair closer. He wasn’t sure Q even heard him. His eyes were closed, and a warm flush was creeping up his neck.

“I’m okay,” Q said breathlessly even though he knew he was past the point of no return.

“You’re not okay,” Bond said. “Let me help you, Q.”

He knew Bond was talking to him, but it was like the sound was coming to him underwater, drowned out by his own pulsing heartrate.

James frowned; he should have intervened earlier. The Quartermaster obviously wasn’t well when he’d arrived, but he hadn’t pressed it, assuming it was the usual combination of too much stress and caffeine, not enough sleep or real food. He’d felt a little bubble of concern when he saw Q’s long fingers occasionally shake while he was typing, missing the keys he was aiming for. Despite his attempt to keep things light and teasing, he knew Q didn’t have a hand cramp—he was shaking. What had started in his fingers had quickly taken over other parts of his body and he wasn’t sure if Q had even noticed. His whole body seemed to be buzzing with nervous energy.

The moment Q choked on his own breath Bond knew he was having a panic attack. He placed a couple fingers on the back of Q’s neck; his skin was burning, and when he moved those fingers around to Q’s pulse point underneath his jaw, he found his heart was racing. Bond reached over and tapped the button that obscured the glass so no one on the main floor could see them. Q had made a sad attempt to reassure the agent he was okay, and James had decided enough was enough.

“You’re not okay,” Bond said. “Let me help you, Q.”

He slid Q’s chair back from his desk and crouched down, balanced on the balls of his feet so he could be at eye level with the younger man. Although he wasn’t sure Q was registering his words, James felt it necessary to talk through what he was doing.

“I’m going to touch you again, okay? I want to loosen your tie so you can breathe a little easier.” Q didn’t respond, but he didn’t resist either as Bond’s calloused fingers made quick work of the knotted silk at Q’s throat and slipped it over his head. He also undid the first two buttons of Q’s shirt. Bond rested his hands on Q’s knees and waited for some kind of signal about what to do next. When he lifted his eyes, Bond could see tears threatening to run down his face and beads of sweat breaking out along his forehead and temples. His eyes were wide and frightened, breathing coming in shallow gasps.

“Can’t breathe,” Q said in a shaky voice. Bond took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and blotted away the sweat from Q’s hairline.

“I promise it won’t last forever,” he said. “Do you think you can move to the sofa? You’ll be more comfortable.” Q clenched his eyes shut and made a breathless noise that could have been a yes or a no. “Let’s try,” Bond said, standing up.

Q stood on wobbly legs and he was painfully dizzy. In that moment, he would have traded his laptop for a successful deep breath. Bond gripped Q’s upper arm and half dragged him across the length of the office. Q’s head swam and darkness started to cloud his vision. It was rare that he had a panic attack so bad that he passed out, but this one definitely had potential. The logical part of his brain had checked out several minutes ago, leaving Q with the overwhelming, illogical terror that he was losing his mind, or suffocating, or dying. He felt like his blood had turned to lava, the heat boiling him from the inside out, despite the violent shaking that had overtaken his body. He vaguely registered that he was sitting on his office sofa now. He was frightened—terrified about nothing and everything all at once.

It was awful to watch Q in such distress. Bond looked around the office to see if there was anything that could help him ease Q’s discomfort. He grabbed the first aid kit and dumped the contents out on the floor. He found the chemical ice pack he was looking for and he cracked it and gave it a good shake until it was nice and cold. He sat down next to Q.

“I’m going to put something cold on your neck,” he said just a second before pressing the icepack to the nape of Q’s neck. The reaction was instant—Q’s eyes snapped open with a gasp. His head turned towards Bond and he opened his mouth like he was going to say something but couldn’t quite put the words together. “Does that feel alright?” Bond asked. Q nodded.

“I’m so hot,” he whispered.

“It’s the adrenalin,” Bond said, shifting the cold pack so it rested against Q’s throat and upper chest. Bond had a laundry list of questions he wanted to ask, but his primary focus was to simply get Q through the panic attack. Just when he thought they might be making a little bit of progress, Q’s face crumpled in pain as another wave hit him, the cycle starting over from the top.

“It won’t stop,” he moaned. “God, it just won’t stop.” Q doubled over and pulled his hair, a tight whine in his throat as his pulse thundered through his veins. He was dying; he knew it. His chest ached and there was an ashy, copper taste in his mouth.

“You’re not dying,” Bond said, gently tugging Q’s fingers from his hair.

Shit—had he said that out loud?

“It’s a panic attack, Q. You’re safe. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you are.” Bond took him by the shoulders and tried to sit him up straighter. Q’s hand shot up and grabbed the hand on his right shoulder, squeezing it hard. “Does touch help?” Bond asked. He’d been trying to be careful because he knew that too much stimuli could exacerbate an anxiety attack. But when Q nodded, Bond slid a little closer and slid Q’s glasses off his face. “Then come here,” he said, tugging Q towards him. “Just hold on to me until it passes.”

Q managed to lift his eyes for a moment. The person looking at him wasn’t 007, it wasn’t even Bond: he was pretty sure it was just James. He’d heard the man’s eyes described as “icy” more times than he could count, but Q saw warmth when he looked at him. Concern too of course, but a safe harbor. Q folded himself against Bond’s chest and let himself be wrapped up and held tightly.

James squeezed Q firmly and ran his fingers through the damp hair at the nape of his neck. Every muscle in Q’s body was constricted and, Christ, he was shaking so hard. He briefly considered calling medical to come and give Q some kind of sedative, but he didn’t think the attention of having medics traipse through Q Branch would be appreciated.

“Shh…you’ll be alright,” James soothed when Q whimpered softly. “It’s going to pass.” He continued a quiet litany of reassurances while Bond mentally compiled the list of questions he was going to want answered eventually. How long had Q suffered panic attacks? Was he actively being treated for it? Had something specific triggered this attack? He’d learned a few things over the last thirty minutes: Q ran hot during a panic attack, his pain seemed to be concentrated in his chest, and he welcomed touch. Two of those three things surprised him. Q was so slight that Bond would have guessed he’d be one of those people who turned to ice when anxious. He also expected Q to dodge contact, but he’d done the opposite. It made Bond reconsider how much of Q’s somewhat prickly nature was for show; a crisis tends to reveal who a person really is. James slid a hand down and wrapped his fingers around Q’s wrist, checking his pulse. “You’re coming down from it,” he said quietly. “A few more minutes and it’ll be done.” Q didn’t respond, but he hadn’t really expected him too.

The first conscious thought that came to Q as his breathing slowed was that he was so tired he could sleep for a month. His second thought was that every muscle in his body ached. It was a testament to how slow his brain was moving that he didn’t remember he was being held by James Bond until a few moments later. He couldn’t even muster the energy to be too humiliated (though he was sure to be later). Q focused on the reassuring pressure of the hand slowly moving up and down his spine, the low hum of words being spoken in his ear.

“Just rest, Q,” Bond said. “You’re exhausted.”

He certainly was. Q’s muscled slowly relaxed and his breathing continued to even out. Doubtless there were embarrassing questions and conversations ahead, but for right now there was just the safety of his locked, darkened office, and strong arms.

Bond was relieved to see that the worst had passed. Q was limp and still—maybe even asleep already. It was going to be important to get plenty of water and some Tylenol into the younger man soon (ideally some food as well, but he wasn’t going to press his luck), but for now sleep was probably what he needed most. Even though the attack was over, it would take some time for Q’s cognition to clear and sleep would probably speed the process up. Q yawned; that act itself would have been impossible a few minutes earlier.

“Thank you,” Q whispered, finally giving into the fatigue. He couldn’t imagine suffering through the last half hour alone. He would have limped through—he certainly had in the past, but it was comforting to let someone else take control, to reassure him of the things his conscious mind couldn’t recall while he was in distress. And this part—the achy, hazy exhaustion that followed? Being curled up and hiding in the circle of Bond’s arms was definitely better than facing the aftermath on his own. And when James quietly murmured _anytime, Q_ , he felt the last of his resistance evaporate. He didn’t know how long he would sleep for, but he knew he wouldn’t be alone when he woke up.


End file.
